


It's Always Been You

by RaindropsOnDeadRoses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaindropsOnDeadRoses/pseuds/RaindropsOnDeadRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always been this way, whether Sam really wanted it to be or not. There was nothing that he could do to stop it. It was an electricity. A magnetic attraction. It was the whole world whispering, "Dean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam was twelve.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. This is my first Supernatural fanfic, so feel free to tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is welcomed. :) I don't own the characters. Just the story. :p Also, some emphasis is lost due to the fact that italics aren't available on this site. So, just try to imagine where extra emphasis should be added. Haha.

Sam was twelve. He watched with wide, mesmerized eyes as his brother stripped off his shirt and cast it aside to find another.   
Dean felt him staring. Turned.  
Sam's jaw dropped.  
Dean's lips broke into an easy grin. “What, these?” he asked, trailing his fingers down his well-toned, perfectly defined abs. “You like them, Sammy? Don't worry. You'll have some one of these days.”  
Don't want to have them. Just want yours.  
“What?”  
Sam blinked. Oh. He'd said it out loud. “No-nothing,” he stuttered.  
Dean shrugged, pulling on a clean shirt and ruffling Sam's hair as he passed him. “Come on. Let's get some breakfast.”  
Sam nodded in agreement as Dean left the room, then blew out a short breath. That had been a close call. He'd been changing lately, almost into the beginning of his teenage years, and those changes were both physical, and... well... hormonal. So Sam had started to develop some feelings. But his problems was that he didn't feel anything toward girls. Not toward boys, either, for that matter. Because the word boys insinuated that he was having thoughts about more than one person. But the only person that Sam's new-found libido seemed to be throwing itself at was his big brother. He'd been having thoughts about Dean for a few weeks now. Thoughts he knew he shouldn't be having. So he tried his hardest to push them down – deep, deep down – inside himself. But sometimes, he would slip, falter, and the thoughts would surface. He just prayed that they wouldn't somehow manage to expel themselves from his mouth. Especially not within even remotely close proximity of Dean.  
“Sammy, hurry up, I’m starving!”  
The command broke him from his thoughts, and he shivered. He loved it when Dean called him Sammy. He shook his head to clear it and exited the bedroom of the small apartment that their father was renting out for the month, attempting to leave all inappropriate thoughts about his brother behind the closed door.


	2. Sam was fifteen.

Sam was fifteen. He was leaning against the wall, seated on the bed on the left side of the motel room that they were currently residing in. Dean was lying in the bed to the right, his back toward Sam, sleeping. Sam watched the muscles in Dean's shoulders ripple under his skin as he stirred. Sam involuntarily licked his lips. Dean moved again. Sam shuddered. Looked away.  
“Sammy?” Dean's voice was heavy and low, coated with sleep. “You still awake?”  
Sam sighed shakily at the way that Dean's syllables fell before he was fully conscious. “Yeah.”  
Dean turned to face him, eyes falling on the clock on the nightstand between the two beds. “It's almost four in the morning, man,” he stated, pausing to yawn. “You need to get some rest while you can. Tomorrow's sure as hell not gonna be a walk in the park.”  
Sam sighed again, this time a frustrated, exhausted sound. He was aware that the next day's hunt was going to be a rather grueling one, and that was just if everything went over smoothly. “I know,” he assured Dean, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.   
Dean propped himself up on his elbow. It was dark in the room, save for the single beam of moonlight pouring in through a small opening in the curtains. It softly illuminated Sam's face, and Dean had caught the familiar action. “You okay?” he asked, his tone softening. “Headache?”  
“I'm fine, Dean,” Sam weakly assured him. “Just go back to sleep.” He hadn't even realized that he was crying until he felt the first tear hit his left hand, which was tucked neatly in his lap.  
Dean noticed at exactly the same moment, a new level of concern, almost paternal, sweeping over him. “Sammy, hey, what's the matter?”  
Sam shook his head, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing. Just a stupid nightmare. I told you, I’m fine.”  
Dean pulled himself into a fully upright position. “You're crying, Sam. That isn't fine.”  
Sam didn't respond, just lowered his face into his hands.  
Dean gazed at him sympathetically. He hated seeing Sam like this. Hated that his baby brother wouldn't feel even remotely safe for days after a nightmare like this, hated knowing that it would take him hours to fall asleep every night for at least a week, and hated more than anything that there was nothing he could say to make it any better. Dean's train of thought stopped. Nothing he could say, maybe...  
His mind immediately flashed to when they were younger, much younger, and Sam's nightmares had first begun.

 

Dean was about ten, which would've put Sam at six. Their father was on a hunt – a particularly difficult one, it seemed, because they hadn't heard from him in a couple of days, and he always called when he could. Dean was flipping through what channels the crappy motel TV would pick up, and Sam was already asleep in the bed parallel to his. Dean glanced over at him, taking in the peaceful expression on his face. He felt his lips mold into a small smile. “I love you, my Sammy,” he whispered to the sleeping child.  
As he started to turn away, he noticed a slight shift in Sam's features. Nothing major, nothing that should have startled him, but it did. At just ten years old, Dean was more attuned to his brother than Sam was to himself. And the face that Sam was making was one that Dean had become all too familiar with.  
When you were raised by John Winchester, you weren't afraid, because you couldn't afford to be. There wasn't time to be afraid. You took down the monster, and you pushed it to the back of your mind and suited up for the next kill. Of course, this was all in theory, and Sam... Sam was just a terrified, six-year-old little boy. And the fact that he couldn't let John see that didn't change the truth. So Sam developed a different, much more subdued reaction to fear. But Dean could tell. Because Dean could always tell. So when Sam was afraid, Dean knew.  
Before Dean had time to move a muscle, Sam was out from under the covers, thrashing wildly at the air around him, pained whimpers spilling in a chain from between his soft, pink lips.   
Dean shot up, immediately at Sam's side, restraining him. “Sammy. Sammy. Shhh. I've got you, baby boy. I’m here.”  
Sam gasped, his eyes fluttering open. “De?”  
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean breathed, relief flooding his voice. “You're okay.”  
At that moment, Sam began bawling, clinging to the thin fabric of Dean's shirt like Dean might just disappear if he let go.  
Dean knew that it had only been a dream. But that didn't make it any less real to the crying, shaking child in his arms, nor did it change the reality that whatever Sam had been dreaming about was almost surely out there, and that John had probably already exposed him to it. Silently cursing their father, Dean scooped up Sam and carried him back across the room to his bed, lying down and curling himself around his brother. “It's okay,” Dean repeated. “You're safe. I’m not going anywhere. Just sleep, Sammy. You're safe.”

 

Dean hesitantly pulled back the blankets on his bed and patted the sheets beside him. “Come here, Sam.”   
Sam lifted his glassy eyes, a tired, seriously? expression on his face. “I'm not ten anymore, Dean. I can handle a damn dream. Just... go back to sleep, okay?”  
It was Dean's turn to sigh. “Alright. If you say so.” He rolled back over to face the wall, but left the white blankets down around his waist: an open invitation.  
Sam waited until Dean's breathing had become slow and even before crawling into bed beside him and pulling the covers up to his chin, pressing his forehead against the smooth skin of Dean's back.  
Dean pretended to be every bit as asleep as Sam believed he was.


	3. Sam was sixteen.

Sam was sixteen. To be exact, it was his sixteenth birthday. Yeah. Happy birthday, Sam. How's almost bleeding out for a gift?  
The edges of his vision had been black for the past hour, and he was sure that Dean's voice was the only thing keeping him conscious.  
“Stay with me, Sammy,” he heard his brother repeat for at least the twentieth time in sixty seconds.  
Sam couldn't speak, but forced his eyes to open into slits so that Dean would know he was still awake. Alive. He felt a tear on his cheek and wondered if it was Dean's or his own.  
Then there were rough lips against his forehead for a fraction of a second – Dean's, he was sure – and he was being carefully but quickly lifted onto a stretcher.  
Dean took his hand, clinging to it almost desperately. “I'm not gonna leave you, Sammy. But you can't leave me, either, okay? I need you, man.”  
Sam was so focused on Dean speaking that he couldn't be bothered to notice the loud, persistent sirens of the ambulance that he was swiftly being carried toward. The sound of Dean's voice was Sam's world at that moment (always) and the only thing that he could make himself hold on to.  
Until he heard one of the EMT men say, “I'm sorry, sir, but you can't ride with him. You'll have to follow us to the hospital.”  
Sam snorted weakly. This would be a colorful conversation.  
As Sam had predetermined, a few choice words were exchanged before Dean was climbing into the back of the ambulance beside him, fingers still twined with his, a reassuring, calming thumb gently rubbing circles into the back of his wrist.  
Sam somehow mustered up the strength to mouth to Dean, “Keep talking.”  
Dean nodded, brushing Sam's hair out of his eyes like there was no other process on earth that could possibly require more intense care. “I, uh... I already called Dad and Bobby. They'll be at the hospital waiting for us.” Dean paused and drew in a slow, deliberate breath.  
Sam attempted to squeeze his hand, encouraging him to keep going.  
So Dean did. Complying to Sam without Sam ever even having to speak. Because Dean knew. Like always. “Do you... Do you wanna know what happened?” Dean asked, leaning in a little closer.  
“Yeah.” The last thing that Sam remembered was that damn demon throwing him against a wall with so much force that it knocked him unconscious. When he'd woken up, he was in Dean's arms, and his entire body was set alight with this dull, thrumming fire that burned from the inside out and was just pleading to pull him back under. But he wouldn't let it. Couldn't. Because Dean pleading for him to stay, god dammit, Sammy, stay, was stronger than the wall of numbing flames lapping at the innermost layer of his skin.  
Dean grasped Sam's hand impossibly tighter. “You sure? It might be a little hard to hear. It was... pretty brutal.” Dean's voice threatened to break, and he looked down, fighting to compose himself.  
Sam understood, now. Dean couldn't handle talking about it, really, he had just asked because he felt like Sam deserved to know. “It's okay,” came Sam's silent reassurance. He would've liked to back that statement with a little more conviction, enough to honestly let Dean know that he could wait, but his vocal cords still refused to produce any sound whatsoever.  
“I'm sorry, Sammy,” Dean breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, a pained, hitching sound stuck low in his throat. “I should've been more careful. Should've made sure I didn't leave you alone. Not even for a second. Should've been protecting you.”  
Sam lifted the hand that wasn't being blanketed by Dean's – When had they gotten an IV in there? – and soothingly stroked the inside of Dean's arm, from his wrist to the crease of his elbow and then back down again. “Shhh.”  
It wasn't until then that Sam acknowledged another presence in the back of the ambulance; another EMT worker, female this time. She was seated by his head, only noticed by Sam when she began attaching all sorts of monitors to his body.  
He raised an eyebrow, more reflexively than intentionally. She was cute. Small. Brown hair clipped back out of her eyes, pretty, full lips, painted a pale shade of pink. Not that he was really picky enough to have a type, but if Dean seemed to hook up with similarly mannered girls once in a while, they were reminiscent of her. Dean, however, could not possibly have been less interested. His eyes didn't even flicker to her. Not once. He never took them off of Sam. They were so full of emotion that it made Sam's heart ache, and all he wanted to do was take the undeserved guilt away from Dean and throw it over himself like a cloak so that it would be one less burden that his brother was forced to bear. It was then that he realized how overly-emotional Dean was allowing himself to be. It wouldn't have been quite as odd, had the girl not been present. But Dean wasn't putting on his man-of-steel facade the way that he always did around others, especially company of the cute, female persuasion.  
Sam could feel himself slipping again, with Dean not talking and all, and he heard the woman mutter something about his vitals finally stabilizing, so he decided it was okay to let go. His last conscious thought was that Dean was fucking beautiful when he cried.


	4. Sam was eighteen.

Sam was eighteen. He was eighteen, and it was too much, and too hard, and it fucking hurt, and he just needed to get out.  
Since he was twelve years old, he'd been having these excruciatingly painful, heart-wrenching, gut-twisting feelings, and he couldn't handle them anymore. He thought it would all go away as he grew older, thought it was a product of the hero-worship that he'd always had for his brother intensifying all of his new hormones, thought it was just a phase.   
He couldn't have been more wrong.  
Throughout the six years since it had started, it had only gotten worse. So, so much worse.   
In the beginning, it was minor things. Little, fleeting thoughts. Noticing new aspects of Dean's body that he liked. Like... liked. Normally, it wasn't too difficult for Sam to push any of that away. But then it had gotten... bad.

 

Only a couple of years later, the dreams had begun. First, the focal point was Dean's mouth just... being. Sometimes he was talking. Sometimes pressing the cool rim of a beer bottle to his lips, dipping his tongue inside for a better taste. Sometimes singing along to Zepplin or Metallica in the Impala. Nothing unusual, aside from how the images made all of Sam's blood rush between his legs and always woke him with a pounding, throbbing ache that he ignored to the best of his ability. They didn't count as wet dreams if he never actually came, right?  
Yeah. That was a good theory. Until, you know, he did.   
The first time a dream about Dean actually brought him to a climax was just after he turned seventeen. The content had amped up a little by then, still nothing too inexplicably sexual, but not nothing, either. By this time, Dean's lips had begun brushing over small patches of Sam's skin in the dreams; sometimes his mouth, sometimes his neck, or chest, or even his shoulders and biceps occasionally, but no matter where, always feather-light. Dean's lips never lingered anywhere for more than a couple of seconds at a time, and they never applied any real pressure.  
That is, before Sam kissed back. Because in the dream that finally got him off, Sam crushed his lips against (ohgod) his brother's, and his release was almost instant.   
As if matters needed to be made worse, when Sam gasped in a lung-full of air and pulled himself into consciousness, the realization hit him that he and Dean were sharing a bed. Only one crappy motel room, as always, and their father was occupying the only other available sleeping space.  
Sam muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, and turned as delicately as he could onto his side, assessing the damage.  
And then, the most horrifying of all horrifying possibilities brought itself to reality. Dean was awake.  
Sam stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped, god, everything.  
He heard Dean lightly chuckle, and then felt his hand slide between them, ghosting his fingers over the wet patch on the sheets. Dean must have sensed how tense he was, and gently tugged on Sam's shoulder to pull him onto his back again. “'S'okay, Sammy,” he muttered sleepily. “C'm'ere.”   
Sam allowed himself to be maneuvered back into his previous position, but his expression was still filled with embarrassment that flushed his cheeks a dark shade of pink.  
Dean ran his fingers methodically through Sam's hair. “Nothin' to be ashamed of,” he assured quietly, and Sam gradually relaxed under his touch.  
Still, he felt dirty, and wrong, and if Dean could just see what was going on in Sam's head... He shivered.  
“Cold?” Dean asked, aware of the movement immediately.  
“Yeah,” Sam breathed, the lie easily slipping over his tongue.  
Dean pressed himself to Sam's body, their frames no longer aligning, as Sam was taller now, and began stroking Sam's back with his fingertips. “Better?” he asked.  
Sam couldn't bring himself to speak, so he nodded, hoping that Dean wouldn't notice his rapidly reappearing erection.  
If Dean did, he kept it to himself.

 

That wasn't the last time it happened, nor was it as intense as the dreams or the orgasms eventually became, and when it got to the point that Sam was dreaming about Dean wrapping those cocksucking lips around his dick, he decided he'd had enough.  
When the fight with John ended the way that it did, a sliver of Sam had actually been glad that he'd finally gotten the push he needed to leave, to go to Stanford, to start a life of his own. A life without constantly having to watch his back. A life without his father dictating his every move. A life without Dean.  
But when Dean wrapped his strong arms around him for what he knew could be the last time, Sam's soul all but melted and poured out of his body. “So fucking proud of you,” Dean whispered against his hair. “Love you so much, Sammy. Do good for me. Stay happy.”  
Sam had ridden a lot of buses in his lifetime. He'd never loathed one more than the one that carried him away from a good, solid hundred and ten percent of his heart.


	5. Sam was twenty-two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter sucks. XD I'll write more fics, and they'll be better and a lot less rushed, I promise. If you have any prompt suggestions for the next one, leave them in the comments. :3

Sam was twenty-two, but he was crying like he was about five.   
“I've got you, Sammy,” came a hushed whisper against his hair. “I'm so sorry.”  
Dean was apologizing for Jess. He felt like it was his fault for taking Sam away from her, for leaving her without proper protection. But Sam wasn't crying over Jess. Sam was crying because he wasn't crying over Jess. Sam was crying because he was a horrible, cruel, awful person. Sam was crying because when he'd seen Jessica plastered to the ceiling and engulfed in flames, before the horror and shock and sickening ohgodJess set in, the immediate emotion flooding Sam's veins was invigorating, freeing (DeanDeanDean) relief.  
But Dean didn't know any of that, and he kept right on comforting Sam, and Sam kept right on crying.   
They stood that way for at least another half-hour, until Sam finally pulled away and wiped the tears from his face.  
Dean stroked Sam's hair, bringing their foreheads together.  
Sam didn't know if it was the lack of space between them, or all of the emotions built up in that one moment, or maybe it was just that Dean was finally putting down that wall that he was always guarding himself with, but that was when Sam felt it. Really, really felt it for the first time. That it wasn't one-sided. That it was there for Dean, too. It had always been this way, whether Sam really wanted it to be or not. There was nothing that he could do to stop it. It was an electricity. A magnetic attraction. It was the whole world whispering, “Dean.” And now Sam knew that the world carried the soft, sweet murmur of his name to Dean's ears in just the same way, and that it was time to stop pretending they couldn't hear it and just give the fuck in.   
Before Sam knew what was happening, Dean's lips were crushing against his with a bruising force, and he was kissing back just as desperately. His fingers hooked under the edge of Dean's shirt, and he heard himself growl, “Off,” before realizing he'd actually said it.  
Dean complied to Sam, always, and pulled his shirt over his head seemingly without ever separating their lips. “Wanted this for so long, Sammy,” Dean breathed between kisses. “Wanted you.”  
“Wanted you, too, Dean,” Sam gasped, his lips moving to trail down Dean's neck, mind reeling, attempting to grasp the possibility of this.  
“How long?” Dean demanded, gripping Sam's waist tightly.  
“Twelve,” Sam responded vaguely, pressing his hand against the small of Dean's back to pull him closer.   
Dean actually stopped for a second. “Sammy, twelve years?”  
Sam began to shake his head, but paused. “Well, almost, yeah. But I meant I was twelve when it started. How long for you?”  
Dean laughed nervously, running a hand through his short hair. “'Bout the same. Since you were twelve. Noticed the way you started looking at me, but I thought... thought it was just me convincing myself it was happening. Because it was what I wanted. I knew it was wrong. You were my little brother-”  
Sam cut him off, a shiver suddenly and violently wracking his body.  
Dean smiled. But it wasn't his classic, trademark, Dean-Winchester-can-make-your-panties-drop-without-ever-even-touching-you smile. It was a sugary, warm, sincere smile. All for Sam. “You like it when I say that? When I remind you who you are?”  
Sam whimpered.  
Dean grinned wider. “I'll take that as a yes. And that's good. Because I want you to think about it. I want to make sure you know that you're mine. My Sammy. My baby boy.”  
Sam's entire body shook, and a strained, “Dean,” slipped from his mouth.  
“You really like that one, huh?”  
All Sam could do was nod.  
Dean gently stroked his cheek and pressed their lips together again, this time more softly. Sam leaned into the kiss, caressing the back of Dean's head with his right hand and holding onto Dean's hip with his left.  
“I don't think this is gonna work,” Dean whispered, slowly pulling himself away. Sam's expression was shocked and terrified and hurt, but Dean placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “Not like that, Sammy. I meant that you still have your shirt on and I don't. That doesn't seem very fair.”  
Sam breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Well, then, you're just going to have to do something about that.”  
Dean smirked, muttering, “Bossy little bitch,” but removed Sam's shirt in one fluid movement, despite the height difference.  
Once there was immediate skin-on-skin contact, Sam deepened the kiss a little, but didn't speed anything up. Dean was moving slowly, for once in his life, and Sam was going to give him all the time that he needed.   
Eventually (Sam wasn't sure when it had happened, really) they ended up in nothing but their boxers, lying together in one of the full-sized beds in their motel room, holding each other so closely that anyone looking would've sworn it was a sin for them to let go.  
Dean's breath was hot against Sam's neck, and caused his arms to flush with goosebumps. “Sam,” Dean said, so quietly that he almost couldn't be heard over the rustling of the sheets.   
“Hm?” Sam placed a kiss gingerly on the top of his head.  
Dean slid his fingertips into the waistband of Sam's underwear, not pulling, not demanding, simply asking Sam for permission.  
Sam understood and shook his head yes, mirroring his brother's actions.  
When Dean looked up at Sam, his eyes were dark. “Of course, Sammy. Don't ever have to ask.”  
They stripped their last remaining articles of clothing off, until all that either of them was wearing was a necklace draped around Dean's neck.  
Sam took it between his fingers and met Dean's eyes, his own wide with awe. “You... you kept it.”  
Dean cupped Sam's neck with his hand. “It was the only thing I had when you left. I never took it off. Not for anything.”  
Sam felt a tear slip from the corner of his eye. “Dean, I’m so sorry I did that to you. I was just so mad at Dad for everything he said, and I was tired of him pushing me around all the time, so-”  
“Shhh,” Dean interrupted. “It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to explain anything to me. I understand.”  
Sam had left out the part about not being able to stand being around Dean because he was afraid that he would end up unable to keep from jumping him, but Sam thought that, somewhere deep down, Dean probably knew that, too.  
His thoughts were interrupted when he felt Dean's eyes gliding over his body and stopping when they reached his cock, which was completely, painfully erect. “So fucking beautiful, Sammy. You're so beautiful.”  
Sam silently lavished in the praise, but shook his head, replying, “Not compared to you, I’m not.”   
Dean didn't speak, but Sam could feel the disagreement in Dean's gentle fingertips as they glided down his tall frame.   
Suddenly, an overwhelming urge hit Sam, and the words left his mouth without thought. “Want you inside me, Dean.”  
Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “Fucking Christ, Sam. Gonna kill me.”  
Sam could feel his face turning a deep shade of red. “I... Shit. I’m sorry. I didn't even mean-”  
But before he could finish speaking, Dean's lips were on his again, a new urgency behind them. His tongue flicked against the opening to Sam's mouth, asking, always asking, and Sam opened to him without hesitation.  
“Sammy,” Dean breathed. “God, Sammy.”  
Sam moaned softly into Dean's mouth, their breath and their tongues mingling. Sam wasn't afraid now, and made sure to clear up any uncertainty that Dean may have had. “Need it, Dean. Need you. Please.”  
Dean nodded vigorously. “Yeah, baby boy. Anything for you. Anything.”  
Dean Winchester being, well, Dean Winchester, a bottle of lube was just a basic essential, and it took him all of about two seconds to dig one out of his bag on the floor. Then he was right back on the bed with Sam, holding him as closely as if he'd never moved a muscle.  
“Dean, is this... okay? I mean, do you... If you don't want... You don't have to just... just do this because I... I’m... I’m sorry, I didn't even-”  
“Sam.” Dean's voice was gentle but firm. “There is nothing that I want more in the world. Not a single thing.”  
“Really?” Sam asked skeptically.  
Dean placed his right hand over his heart. “I swear.”  
Sam gave a sharp nod, indicating that he believed Dean, and pressed his lips to Dean's forehead.  
Dean cleared his throat. “So. Gotta get you ready for me, okay?”  
Sam's breath hitched, but he forced himself to speak. “Yeah, okay.”  
Catching the slight hesitation, Dean backed up a little, pushing Sam's hair out of his eyes. “Hey, Sammy, you okay?”  
Sam looked down. “Nervous,” he admitted.  
Dean let out a hard laugh. “Me, too, baby boy.”  
Sam's expression rearranged into a playfully shocked look. “What? The great Dean Winchester is nervous?”  
Dean gave him a small smile. “Just 'cause it's you. Want everything to be perfect for you. And I’m not too good at perfect.”  
“You are perfect,” Sam assured him, running his thumb over Dean's lips. “It couldn't possibly be anything less. Just 'cause it's you.”  
Dean just gazed at Sam for a long moment, before finally asking “You ready, Sammy?”  
Sam began trembling, but parted his lips and breathed, “Yeah.”  
Dean soothingly stroked his arm. “It's okay. Not gonna hurt you, I promise. Look at me.”  
Sam did.  
Dean's eyes were full of patience and calm and comfort. “Trust me?” he asked, his voice low.  
“Of course,” Sam answered automatically.  
“Alright,” Dean said. “Here we go.”  
He flipped the cap on the bottle of lube and coated three of his fingers, then closed it and placed on the table beside the bed.   
Sam trembled harder, but shamelessly spread his legs for Dean, who let out a long, slow breath before lowering his hand to Sam's ass and moving the tip of his middle finger in small, slow circles around his entrance.   
Sam gasped, tensing, and Dean lifted his left hand to Sam's hair, petting it with a touch that was almost as light as air. “Gotta relax for me, baby,” he murmured, letting his words blanket Sam before he continued. Sam allowed his muscles to release their tension, but held onto Dean's left wrist with a steel grip.   
Dean pressed as gently as he could against Sam's rim, giving it the pressure that it needed to open to him, but not forcing anything. Soon enough, he was allowed entrance, and slid his finger in, just to the first knuckle. “Okay, Sammy?”   
Sam was breathing too rapidly to respond verbally, but shook his head yes.   
Dean slid in a little further, finally able to feel a silky ring of muscle clamped around his finger, and he and Sam moaned in unison.   
Sam took his dick in his hand and began pumping it slowly.  
“Not too much, baby boy,” Dean soothingly commanded. “Don't want you coming yet.”   
Sam shook his head. “Not gonna.”  
“Okay.” Dean pulled his finger out slowly and joined it with another. “Two now, okay?”  
“'Kay.”  
Dean pressed again, and Sam took him more easily this time. “So good for me, sweetheart,” Dean praised.   
Sam pushed himself down, taking Dean's fingers in further. “Dean. More,” he pleaded.  
Dean breathed out shakily. “You have to tell me if it hurts, Sammy.”  
Sam nodded again. “I will.”  
Dean slipped out his fingers and added a third, slowly circling Sam's hole, then pressing one more time, gently, so gently, and Sam let him in beautifully.  
Sam's back arched at the sensation, and he let out a low moan.  
“Feel good?” Dean asked sincerely.  
“Shit. Yeah,” Sam panted.  
“Good,” Dean said, working his fingers slowly in and out of Sam for a few minutes before pulling them completely out.  
Sam groaned at the loss of sensation. “Dean. Now. Need you now.”  
“Fuck, baby boy. Need you, too,” Dean urgently responded, picking up the bottle of lube again and beginning to coat his cock, trying not to come from that feeling alone, because that was how hard it had gotten him just to touch Sam.  
When he pressed his tip against Sam's hole, there was no resistance, and he slid inside easily, eliciting load moans from Sam and himself.  
Sam pushed his hips up to take Dean in deeper.  
“Careful, baby,” Dean whispered. “Slow, okay? Don't hurt yourself.”  
“Not gonna hurt,” Sam said, his voice coated with sureness. He then proceeded to pull Dean down, and, once Dean was all the way in, began to cry.  
Dean started to pull out, but Sam held onto his hips, not letting him move. “Sammy...”   
Sam shook his head. “No. No. Doesn't hurt. Just... just let me feel you. 'S perfect.”  
Dean, as always, let Sam have exactly what he needed, not moving until Sam told him.   
Finally, Sam sniffed, and wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”  
“Never apologize for something like that. Never, ever,” Dean chastised, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on Sam's lips.  
The movement caused him to press further into Sam, and they both gasped. “'M ready, Dean,” Sam announced with a sudden, regained urgency.  
“Are you-”  
“Dean.” Sam's tone was demanding. “Fuck me.”  
Dean had imagined those words coming from Sam a million times, but the way they sounded in his head couldn't even begin to bring justice to the real thing. He slid out and then back in in a hard, rapid movement.  
Sam's moan was so loud that the guests in the next room undoubtedly heard it.  
Dean had to squeeze the base of his cock to keep from coming at the sound of his baby (not such a baby anymore, was he?) brother's pleasure, and pushed smoothly back inside.  
After some undetermined amount of time of this repetitive action (five minutes, an hour?) and Sam fisting his cock, he spoke. “Dean...” He sounded like all of the air had been punched from his lungs. “Need to... need to come.”  
Dean's eyes grew impossibly darker. “Wanna come, Sammy? I'll make you come.” He pulled back until only the head of his shaft was inside Sam, then angled himself slightly downward and slammed straight into Sam's prostate.  
Sam screamed. And came. And came. And fucking came.   
And Dean, marveling at the image of his amazing, beautiful little brother coming completely apart for him, coming and screaming and chanting his name like a prayer, fell to pieces, joining the chorus with his own round of, “Jesus Christ, oh, fuck, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy...”  
They both actually lost consciousness from the force of their orgasms, and when they awoke, Dean's head was resting heavily on Sam's chest.  
“Dean?”  
“Mph,” Dean mumbled.  
Sam chuckled, a low, happy sound, stemmed from deep in his throat. “You okay?”  
Dean nodded his head against Sam's skin. “You?”  
“Yeah,” Sam assured him. “I'm good.”  
Dean reached up to twine his fingers through the loose waves of Sam's hair. “Sammy?”  
“Yeah?”  
Dean hesitated.  
Sam stroked his cheek with the backs of his fingers.   
When Dean finally spoke, there was more emotion packed into the words than Sam had any idea how to take in, and just let it wash over him. It wasn't like they'd never said it before. They were brothers, after all. But this was different. This was new.   
Sam remembered Dean telling him once that he'd never use “the 'l' word” because that was what got you trapped, and, besides, Dean Winchester didn't need that chick-flick crap.   
Nevertheless, the phrase that fell from Dean's mouth, bearing more meaning than anything that he'd ever spoken aloud in his life, was, “I love you.”  
Sam felt new tears stinging his eyes. “I love you, Dean,” he whispered.  
Neither of them said another word, and it didn't take long for them to drift off to sleep wrapped in each other's arms.  
Sam slept peacefully that night for the first time in what felt like forever.  
He didn't dream. Didn't need to. Not anymore.


End file.
